Plum Island (53 page)

Back in the kitchen, she began gathering her papers.

“By the way,” I asked, “what do those two signal flags mean?”

She continued packing her briefcase and said, “The flags are the letters B and V. In the phonetic alphabet, they are Bravo
Victor.” She looked at me.

I asked, “How about the other meaning? The word meaning?”

“The Bravo flag also means dangerous cargo. The Victor flag means require assistance.”

“So, the two flags could mean dangerous cargo, require assistance.”

She replied, “Yes, which would make sense if the Gordons were carrying dangerous micro-organisms. Or even illegal drugs. This
could have been a signal to their partner. But you say this has nothing to do with bugs or drugs.”

“That’s what I say.”

She informed me, “According to a guy in my office who’s a sailor, a lot of people on land run up pennants as nothing more
than a decoration or a joke. You couldn’t do that on the water, but on the land, no one takes it seriously.”

“True enough. That’s what the Gordons often did.” But this time … dangerous cargo, need assistance…. I said, “Go with the
assumption it was a signal to someone.” I added, “It’s a terrific signal. No telephone record, no cell phone, just an old-fashioned
flag signal. Probably pre-arranged. The Gordons are saying, ‘We got the goods on board, come help us unload this stuff.”’

“
What
stuff?”

“Ah.
That
is the question.”

She looked at me and said, “If you have information or evidence that you’re holding back—and I suppose you do— then you may
have a legal problem, Detective.”

“Now, now. No threats.”

“John, I’m investigating a
double murder
. They were your friends, and this is not a game—”

“Hold on. I don’t need a lecture. I was sitting on my back porch minding my own business when Max comes calling with his hat
in his hand. By the same time the next evening, I’m standing in an empty parking lot at the ferry after a day in biocontainment
with my thumb up my nose. And now—”

“You hold on. I’ve treated you very well—”

“Oh, come on. You took a two-day walk on me—”

“I was
working
. What were
you
doing?”

And so on. After about two minutes of this, I said, “Truce. This is not productive.”

She got herself under control and said, “I’m sorry.”

“You should be.” I added, “I’m also sorry.”

And so we made up, without kissing.

She said, “I’m not pressing you for what you know, but you did indicate that after I told you about what I knew, you’d do
the same.”

“I will. But not this morning.”

“Why not?”

“Speak to Max first. It would be much better if you just briefed him from
your
notes and not from my theories.”

She thought about that and nodded, “Okay. When can I hear your theories?”

“I just need a little more time. Meanwhile, think about those clues I gave you and see if you come up with what I came up
with.”

She didn’t reply.

I added, “What I will promise you is that if I get it all together, I’ll hand it to you on a silver platter.”

“That’s very generous of you. What would you like in return?”

“Nothing. You need the career boost. I’m at the top of my career.”

“You’re actually in trouble and solving this case won’t get you out of it—it’ll get you further into it.”

“Whatever.”

She looked at her watch and said, “I have to meet Max.”

“I’ll walk you to your car.”

We walked outside, and she got into her car. She said, “I’ll see you tomorrow night at the Tobin party, if not sooner.”

“Right. You can be Max’s date.” I smiled. “Thanks for stopping by.”

She drove around the circle, but instead of heading down the driveway, she came tearing around again to the front door, jammed
on her brakes, and said, almost breathlessly, “John! You said the Gordons were digging for buried treasure. Like an important
archaeological find—on Plum Island—government land—they had to steal it from Plum Island and bury it on their own land—the
Wiley property. Right?”

I smiled and gave her a thumbs-up, then turned and went inside.

The phone was ringing, and I answered it. It was Beth. She asked, “What did they dig up?”

“The phone is not secure.”

“John, when can I meet you? Where?”

She sounded excited, as well she should.

I said, “I’ll get in touch with you.”

“Promise.”

“Sure. Meanwhile, you’d be well advised to keep that to yourself.”

“I understand.”

“Bye—”

“John.”

“Yes?”

“Thanks.”

I hung up. “You’re welcome.”

I went out the back kitchen door and walked out to the end of the dock. I’ve found that this is a good place to think.

A morning mist hung over the water, and I saw a small skiff making its way through the gray vapor. A cabin cruiser was going
to cross its path, and the man in the skiff picked something up, then I heard a loud horn, a foghorn, and I recalled seeing
these aerosol cans that emitted a foghorn sound, a sort of poor man’s version of an electric foghorn or a brass bell. It was
a common enough sound on the water, so much so that you’d never notice it, probably not even if you heard it on a clear sunny
day because I recalled the big boats also used it to signal for a tender to pick up the crew after they moored in the deep
water. And if you heard it close by, you might not hear the sound of two gunshots in quick succession. A poor man’s silencer.
Very clever, actually.

It was, indeed, all coming together now, even the tiny details. I was satisfied that I had the motive for murder— Captain
Kidd’s treasure. But I couldn’t quite connect Tobin, Stevens, or anybody else to the murders. In fact, in my more paranoid
moments, I thought that Max and Emma could also be in on it.

Given the milieu out here, it really could be a wide-ranging conspiracy. But who actually pulled the trigger? I tried to picture
Max, Emma, Tobin, and Stevens, and maybe even Zollner, all on the back deck of the Gordons’ house…. Or maybe someone else,
someone I hadn’t even met or thought about. You have to be very careful and damned sure before you start calling someone a
murderer.

What I also needed to do—not because I gave a damn about it, but everyone else would—was to find the treasure. Little Johnny
goes treasure hunting. But he must outwit some evil pirates and get the treasure and turn it over to the government. Now there’s
a depressing thought.

I wondered if a few million in gold and jewels would make me happy. Saint-seducing gold. Before I got too deep into that one,
I thought about all the people who’d died because of that gold—presumably the men whose ship it was on when Kidd attacked
them, then some of Kidd’s own men, then Kidd himself when they hanged him at the execution dock, then who knew how many men
and women died or were ruined over the last three centuries looking for Captain Kidd’s fabled treasure. Then, finally, Tom
and Judy Gordon. I had an uneasy premonition that the chain of death wasn’t going to stop there.

A
t about noon, I stopped by Whitestone Florist and delivered the chamber pot. I hadn’t had breakfast so I asked Emma to lunch,
but she said she was busy. Fridays in flowerland were busy days—parties, dinners, and so forth. Plus, there were three funerals,
which by their nature are unscheduled events. And, she had a standing order from Tobin Vineyards for flowers every weekend
for their restaurant and lobby. And, of course, there was Fredric’s big soiree the next evening. I said, “Does he pay his
bills?”

“No. That’s why I get it up front with him. Cash or credit card. No checks. And I cut off his house charge.”

She said it in a way that suggested she’d like to cut off more than that. I asked, “Can I bring you a sandwich?”

“No, thanks. I really have to get back to work.”

“See you tomorrow.”

I left and took a walk on Main Street. Somehow the nature of our short relationship had changed. She was definitely a little
cool. Women have a way of frosting you, and if you try to thaw them, they just turn the temperature lower. It’s a game that
takes two to play, and the deck is already stacked, so I always choose not to play.

I bought a sandwich and a beer in a deli, got in my Jeep, and drove to Tom and Judy’s acre on the bluff. I sat on the rock
and had my lunch. Captain Kidd’s Ledge. Incredible. And I had no doubt that the numbers 44106818, which were known history,
would be made to fit the eroded spot on the face of this bluff where the treasure was going to be found— forty-four paces
or forty-four degrees, ten paces or ten degrees, or whatever. You could play with numbers and their meaning and work backwards
toward a spot of your own choosing. “Nice going, you two. I wish the hell you’d confided in me. You wouldn’t be dead.”

A bird chirped somewhere, as if in reply.

I stood on the rock and with my binocs, I looked south, scanning the farms and vineyards until I spotted the Tower of Tobin
the Terrible, rising above the flat glacial plain, the tallest thing out there: Lord Freddie’s penis substitute. I said aloud,
“You little shit.”

I decided I wanted to get away—away from my telephone, my house, Beth, Max, Emma, the FBI, the CIA, my bosses, and even my
buds in the city. As I looked across the Sound at Connecticut, I had the idea to go to Foxwoods Resort Casino.

I went down the bluff, got into my Jeep, and drove to the Orient ferry. It was a calm crossing, a nice day on the Sound, and
in one hour and twenty minutes, my Jeep and I were in New London, Connecticut.

I drove to Foxwoods, this sprawling gambling casino and hotel in the middle of nowhere—actually on the land of the Mashantucket
Pequot tribe—a sort of Fuck-You-White-Man-We’re-Getting-Even kind of place. I checked in, bought some toiletries, went to
my room, unpacked my toothbrush, then went down to the cavernous casino to meet my fate.

I was very lucky with blackjack, broke even on the slots, lost a little at craps, and got taken a wee bit at the roulette
wheel. By eight
P.M.
, I was down only about two thousand dollars. What fun I was having.

I tried to put myself in Freddie Tobin’s light shoes—babe on my arm, down about ten Gs a weekend, winery pumping out the juice,
but not quick enough. Everything that is my world is about to come crashing down. Still, I’m holding on and even becoming
more reckless with my gambling and spending because I’m about to hit the jackpot. Not this jackpot at Foxwoods; the jackpot
that has been buried for three hundred years, and I know where it is, and it’s tantalizingly close—I can probably see where
it’s buried as I go past Plum Island on my boat. But I can’t grasp this treasure without the help of Tom and Judy Gordon,
whom I’ve taken into my confidence and recruited to be my partners. And I, Fred-ric Tobin, have picked well. Of all the Plum
Island scientists, staff, and workers I’ve ever met, Tom and Judy are the ones I want to recruit—they’re young, they’re bright,
they’re stable, they have a little flair, and most of all, they’ve shown a taste for the good life.

I assumed that Tobin recruited the Gordons not long after they’d come here, as evidenced by the fact that within four months
the Gordons had moved from their inland house near the ferry to their present house on the water. That had been Tobin’s suggestion,
and so had the boat.

Obviously, Fredric Tobin had been actively on the prowl for his Plum Island connection and had probably rejected a number
of candidates. For all I knew, he’d once had another Plum Island partner, and something had gone wrong, and that person or
persons were now dead. I’d have to check and see if any Plum Island employees had met an untimely death two or three years
ago.

I realized that I was displaying an unacceptable prejudice toward Fredric Tobin, that I really wanted
him
to be the murderer. Not Emma, not Max, not Zollner, not even Stevens. Fredric Tobin—Fry Freddie.

Try as I might to cast others in the role of murderer, it came back to Tobin in my mind. Beth, without actually saying so,
suspected Paul Stevens, and all other things being equal, it was more likely him than Tobin. My thoughts about Tobin were
too involved with my feelings for Emma. I just couldn’t get the image out of my mind of those two screwing. I mean, I haven’t
felt that way in a decade or so.

I didn’t want to railroad Freddie, but I decided to proceed on the assumption that he did it, and I’d see if I could make
a case against him.

Regarding Paul Stevens, he might well be in on this, but if Tobin had recruited Stevens, why did he need the Gordons? And
if Stevens was not
in on
the plan, was he
on to
the plan? Was he like a vulture waiting to swoop in and take his share after the long, hard work of the hunt had been done
by others? Or was it Stevens acting alone without Tobin or anyone else? I could certainly make a case against Stevens, who
had knowledge of Plum Island, the opportunity, the guns, the daily proximity to the victims, and above all, the personality
to hatch a conspiracy and kill his partners. Maybe if I was lucky, I’d get Stevens
and
Tobin a hot squat.